


Simpler Times

by delfiend



Series: My Sherlock AU [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock (TV) RPF, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 13:41:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6568528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delfiend/pseuds/delfiend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Randomly started writing what I imagined Seb and Jim meeting for the first time would be like. Figured I have nothing to lose posting it here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Boy on the Park Bench

There was something so awfully familiar about the melancholy boy sitting on the park bench, spectacled face hidden behind the yellowing, musty pages of an old book. It’s not the sort of familiarity associated with déjà vu, not the kind you feel when you believe yourself to have seen said person before. It was the sort of familiarity that reached out to the soul, that whispered of a kindred spirit.

I looked to him, as I had done many times before. He was always there, always on his park bench, clad in his school uniform and feet dangling above the ground, face hidden behind that old crumbling book. My friends and I used to go to the park to practice the sport of the season, but even when all my friends had better things to do with their time, I still came, football held under my arm, dribbling it about half-heartedly as I watched the melancholy boy on the bench.

Every day, I waited. I waited for him to shut his old book, adjust his glasses, jump down from the bench with book clutched tightly to his chest and take the sidewalk out of the park—it was always the same routine. Every day, while I occupied my time with my football, I schemed to finally get the name of the melancholy boy sitting on the park bench. I could kick my ball towards him as an excuse to approach; I could time it so I walked into him as he left and knocked his book from his arms, picking it up from the ground in apology; I could straight up run to him and introduce myself, too. Each day, a new plan was formed, and each day, my plans went to waste as my stomach filled with butterflies and my feet turned to lead, and in silence I watched the melancholy boy leave the park.

I didn’t know what was wrong with me. While I sat through my classes at school, wandered through the hallways, played hooky in the bathroom, I saw it happening: people making new friends, just saying hello, like the world wasn’t about to come crashing to an end if they did. I sat in pensive silence at my lunch table with my sport-enthusiast colleagues, going on and on about the latest games and the most impressive plays, unaware of my presence. As I made my way from my school to the park, I wondered about the melancholy boy on the bench. Did he struggle to make friends, too? Is that why he was always alone, always looking so sad? I reached my usual spot, on a little hill in view of the boy’s bench. I glanced over, as I always did, looking for the boy with his books and glasses. My heart pounded in my chest. He wasn’t there.

Before I knew what was going on, I had left my football in the grass and was hurrying towards the bench, clutching to my backpack straps in my fear. I stood and stared at the empty bench, as if it could give me answers to the melancholy boy’s whereabouts. As I stared, I heard the shuffle of feet on the pavement, and turned my head. There he was. His glasses had been mangled, his hair askew, his uniform muddied, his face a canvas of reds and blacks and blue.

“Where’s your book…?” The words were out of my mouth before my brain had time to recover from the shock.

He looked at me funny, as if wondering why I knew, why I cared, who in the world I was. “They took it…”

“Come on.” I grabbed a hold of his arm and was dragging him from the park without a second thought.

“This way,” his voice was small, accented with thick Irish pronunciation. Somehow, he knew exactly what was on my mind. Kindred spirits are like that, I suppose.

We ended up at a school other than my own, heading around to the back where a group of boys were smoking cigarettes and having a grand old time on their own. My heart was trying to leap from my chest I was so frightened; these boys, they were so much older than I was…

“Hey you cocks!!” I yelled as my feet marched me towards them, anger drowning out my fear. “Give me his book back!”

“What?” One of the boys laughed, laughed at me. “You his boyfriend or somethin’?”

“Good one, Powers!” Another boy snickered, holding the book up out of my reach. “If you want it so bad, come and get it.”

I marched over, leering up at the book held way over my head. I knew there was no way I was getting the book back. But there was one thing I could get….

“You see what you did to my mate?” I said as I pointed back to the melancholy boy, staying a distance away from it all. “I’m gonna do that to you.”

 _Wham!!_ My fist knocked into his jaw.

Revenge.

The first punch hurt my hand like punching a brick wall, but the look of shock on the guy’s face was enough to get me elated. Unfortunately, my high didn’t last long. Within the blink of an eye, the other three boys were on me, and fists started flying like there was no tomorrow. Next thing I knew, I was waking up from the pit of some calm darkness back into the real world of serious hurt. A face was close to my own, big curious brown eyes blinking as mine took focus.

“Thought you were dead there, for a little while,” Came his Irish-accented, soft voice.

I managed a smile. “Hardly took a hit.”

“Yeah,” The boy snorted. “Hardly.”

Between the two of us, we managed to get me back to my feet, staring numbly at the blood soaking my shirt from where it had spilled out my mouth and nose, my hands constantly drawn to my broken nose and my tongue probing all the new gaps where teeth had been.

“Did you get your book back at least..?” I managed as the two of us took the backroads to get back to the park.

“I did,” he smiled.

“What’s it about?” I asked as I hardly kept the consciousness needed to focus on his face.

“This one’s real important. It’s all the stuff you have to know to be a cop. I’m gonna be a cop someday! So I can deal with bullies like Carl Powers.”

“That’s good,” I smiled, realizing faintly that after all those days of staring, too scared to get close and say hello, I was finally talking to the melancholy boy on the bench. “I’m Sebastian, by the way. Sebastian Moran.”

“Nice to meet you Sebastian,” the boy smiled, straightening his crooked glasses. “I’m James. James Moriarty.”

“Nice to meet you, Jim.”

“Jim, huh?” He smiled after a second, shifting my weight to better support me. “I kinda like that.”

“Want to join me for a little football practice, Jim?” I smiled my now gap-toothed smile.

“Not huge into sports, sorry,” He sighed. “But I like board games. Want to come over to my place for some Cluedo..?”

“I’d love to.”

“How about in an hour? That’ll give you time to clean up a bit.”

“Yeah, that works.”

“Then it’s a date,” He grinned. “See you in an hour, Seb.”

“Seb?” I wrinkled my nose.

He shrugged meekly. “It’s the best I could do for now… give me time! I’m sure I’ll think up something better.”

“I’m sure you will…”


	2. Broken but Smiling

“You killed him, didn’t you?”

Jim was silent as he joined me on the park bench. He looked tired. He always looked tired. I handed him the coffee I had bought for him. He took it, maintaining the silence, and drank from it gingerly.

“I did.” The coffee cup fell from his lips as he spoke, and he stared down at it like it might provide some solace.

It was my turn to be silent. I could hardly say I was surprised. Jim was different after we went to secondary school. He was angry. He was short-tempered. He was tired. He was always tired. Once, Jim had confided in me that his home-life was less than ideal. Apparently, he had an absent dad who tended to show up now and again drunk and looking for handouts. Jim’s mother was always sick, but always working to keep the lights on and food in Jim’s stomach. Jim worked two jobs on top of school, one full-day job every weekend in retail, and a graveyard shift every weeknight in fast-food. And during the days, he went to school, only ever partially awake—if awake at all—and not doing very well overall. It was sad, really. He could ace a test without ever studying the material, but he never had his homework, always complained that it was meaningless and below him. What should have been perfect grades became Cs. I could hardly pull off a C working my ass off all the time.

“It’s cool,” I finally sighed. “Can’t say I didn’t see it coming.”

“I’m sorry, Seb…”

I looked at him, more surprised at the apology than the confession of murder. “Sorry for what..?”

“I should have talked to you about it…” He set his coffee aside, head falling into his hands, fingers pushing up into his neat hair. “You shouldn’t have found out this way…”

“Really, its fine,” I added, throwing a comforting arm around his shoulders and jostling him playfully. “Powers had it coming. Remember? You were going to be a cop and toss him in jail?”

What was my attempt to lighten the situation caused Jim to fall more serious.

“The judicial system is broken,” He growled under his breath. “People like Powers and my dad get to terrorize another day because of sloppy coppers. I had to take matters into my own hands…”

“So your dad…?”

“Dead.”

“Oh…”

“I had enough toxin left over to slip it in his beer.”

“So it was toxin then..?” Again, I tried to lighten the mood.

“With Powers? Yeah.” Jim looked up at me, smiling a bit. “Botulinum. Put it in his eczema cream.”

I smiled back. “Clever.”

“Well I _am_ clever.” Jim scoffed.

“Too clever, I’d say,” I leaned in and kissed his nose before standing, retrieving his backpack from the ground and shouldering it beside my own.

The two of us began to walk, leaving the park, Jim drinking his coffee. I smiled, far too amused that I could see that top of his head. He caught my smile, and glared at me with his curious brown eyes.

“Don’t get cocky, Seb. I’m due to hit a growth spurt here any week now, and I’ll be right back to your height in no time!”

I smiled to myself, remembering fondly how often we used to stand back to back to assure one another we were still the same height. Jim was always hell-bent on being just as tall as me, and sometimes, he claimed, taller.

“So, Sebby,” He smiled mischievously, tossing his empty coffee cup into the trash as we left the park and headed down the road. “Had any thoughts about uni yet..?”

I shrugged. “Not really. I suppose I’ll go anyplace that’ll take me. How ‘bout you? Cambridge? Oxford?”

“Maybe,” he laughed, but I heard the emptiness in the sound, looked to find his eyes had gone blank and distant.

“I’m sure they’ll give you a scholarship,” I assured, knowing just how tight money was for him. “Probably a full ride.”

“You think so..?” His distant eyes shifted to focus on me.

I flashed a reassuring smile. “They’d be utter cocks not to.”

We continued down the road until we came to the local sports center, where police cars crowded around with lights flashing and yellow police tape wrapped everything. Jim and I merged into the small crowd that milled about on the fringes of the police tape, whispering fervently to one another with questions.

“Oh, by the way,” Jim’s voice reached me, and I looked to him. “Happy anniversary.”

I smiled. March 22nd: the day we became friends.

“You never forget,” I shook my head in wonder.

“Yeah, because if I remember, you take me for ice cream.” He tugged at my shirt, succeeding in pulling me down into a quick kiss. “Let’s get ice cream.”

“Anything for you, boss,” I laughed, ruffling his hair and smirking at the angry shade of red he turned.

“Mark my words!” He snarled as we turned from the crime scene. “Two months tops! I’ll be taller than you! Just you wait! I’ve got a whole journal of jokes to crack on you once _you’re_ the short one once again!”

“Can’t wait to hear them, love,” I answered softly, eyeing Jim from the corner of my eye to find him too touched to continue his tirade. I reached out my hand to him, and in return he hooked our pinkies together. Nothing else mattered in that moment. And I knew I wanted nothing to change.

 


	3. Confession Gone Wrong

“Ow…”

“Hold still, you big baby…”

“You aren’t very good at this, Jim…”

“Shut up…”

I could hardly say it had been a tough week. Things really could have been worse. And I wasn’t one to complain. And Jim certainly wasn’t one to sympathize. But the fear in his eyes… the tremor in his hands as he worked to clean the bad cut on my brow… it all felt wrong. Unsettling, was a better word.

“Could’ve been worse,” I managed a smile despite the tears on the brink of spilling over.

“Don’t say that…” Jim scolded quietly, far to intent on patching me up, or at least trying to.

It was supposed to have been a big day. It was Jim’s birthday. And all Jim wanted was to be more open about the two of us. Before today, I had never breathed a word to my family about Jim being more than just a friend. I had never breathed a word about how I really felt about him. My parents, they were very old school folks, very by the book. But for Jim…

“You should have seen the look on his face,” I laughed bitterly, flinching as I saw Jim go for the needle and thread in his first aid kit. “Thought his head would explode before he got a word out…”

“You didn’t have to do it, Seb…” His voice was angry, the Irish in it accentuated. “That was stupid of you!”

I shrugged, wincing as my recently re-located shoulder pained. “I should’ve done it ages ago…” I paused for a long while, voice quiet when I spoke again. “Mind if I spend the night..? Or maybe two…?”

“You can stay here as long as you need. Indefinitely, really.”

He was so sweet when he had the want to be. I leaned forward and kissed him softly. “Wish I could…”

There was a tense pause as his trembling hands pushed the needle into my skin, the sting of the thread snaking through in its wake. Once the first stitch was made, the two of us breathed a collective sigh.

Jim wouldn’t make eye contact, keeping his gaze fixed stubbornly to the needle and the cut on my brow. “When are you leaving, then…?”

“Well, _if_ he’s actually serious-…” A sudden pinch of pain cut my words short, but I recovered quickly. “Soon as school lets out…”

He blinked rapidly, several times; he was always so subtle about expressing his true feelings. I knew he wanted to cry. But Jim never cried.

“Boot camp,” I laughed with a little too much effort. “Could be fun, ya know?”

I hardly heard his voice it came out so soft and broken. “We were supposed to go to university together… you promised…”

“You’re still gonna go,” I assured. “And you’ll have enough fun for the both of us.”

“If you’re not there-… I just don’t know if I could make it-…”

I took a hold of his hand, giving it a resolute squeeze, eyes cast down as the reality of it all began to overshadow my light-hearted disregard.

“You listen to me, Jim,” I began, swallowing hard to keep my voice steady and sure. “You’ve been working your ass off to get enough money to go to university. You’re going to damn well go to university.”

“I don’t even have enough, not even after all my extra hours…”

An idea suddenly struck me. “Yes you do.”

I stood, grabbing my coat from off his bed.

“Where are you going..?” Jim sounded so lost from where he sat on the floor, needle and thread still in his hands.

“To the bank,” I answered, flashing him a grin. “Someone ought to use all that university money I’ve been putting away. If not me… well, then some gorgeous genius I may or may not be in love with.”

“Seb, no… you might need that money…”

I dismissed him with a wave of my hand. “Me? Nah. I hear the military tends to cover your expenses while you’re operating under their colors. Besides,” I smiled weakly. “I forgot to get you anything for your birthday…”

“Seb, I-… I don’t know what to say…”

“Just say, ‘I love you.’”

He smiled, a shimmer of tears in his eyes. “I love you, Seb.”

“Oh, and also say “Seb is the better half in the relationship and make me whole.’”

Jim rolled his eyes, the moment ruined. “Be real, Sebastian. _I’m_ the better half. You’d be lost without me.”

I winked. “You know it, boss.”

I ducked out the door to head for the bank, pausing mid-step to turn on my heel and poke my head back into Jim’s bedroom. “Oh, and uh… by the way… I love you too.”

 


	4. Last Minute Mistakes

What can I say? Our friendship had run its course. I think we both knew, deep inside, below the layers of doubt and preferred nativity. We knew the day I stood at the bus stop, all my belongings packed up into the pack on my back and the two duffle bags held at my sides. He was late, I recall. I had been at the bus stop, wondering if I was really about to leave to join the military without seeing him one last time. And then he showed, coming round the corner, torn between a full on sprint and a dignified walk; he chose the latter.

“Well if it isn’t the Uni Boy,” I teased as he came near.

He smiled, sadly but proudly, flashing me the acceptance letter held tight in his hand. “Full ride.”

“Knew you would, boss,” I winked, turning my eyes back to the road expectantly, reluctantly.

Jim was silent, too. He knew just as I that we were looking at the end of him and me; he knew that we had to cut the attachment then and now, lest it grow stronger with the miles between us.

“What are you going to study..?” I asked conversationally, though my jaw tensing with my effort to be so standoffish with my dearest friend and truest love.

Jim shrugged. “Dunno. Mathematics, I think.”

I scoffed. “Useless major. What, you going to be some dusty old professor, is that it then?”

“No,” Jim came back at me with more venom than either of us expected. “I’m going to do what I always said I was going to do. Deal with people like Carl Powers, like my dad. Deal with them proper and for good.”

I side-eyed him doubtfully. “No offense, Jim, but no one’s going to die by lengthy math lecture.”

“You don’t get it! You’re too stupid!” He snapped, his eyes fixed hot and angry on the road when I looked to him in shock.

My own eyes found the cars in the distance as anger settled itself heavy and stubborn in my chest.

“That’s me. The stupid one, headed off to shoot things and take orders for the rest of my stupid life.”

I heard his voice, muttered and short-tempered. “Well you were stupid enough to think things would work out between the two of us.”

Before then, I had only heard about people breaking the hearts of those they loved. I always thought it was just an exaggerated, an expression of the weak who couldn’t take a blow. Hell knows I could take more than fair share of blows, but _this_ … those words felt like a knife had found a sheath in my heart, my throat seized like my lungs had been punctured, by stomach felt ready to be sick like it had been filled with poison. Tears came abruptly to my eyes, and despite my best efforts they found their way down my cheeks.

“I wasn’t the one vested in our relationship, James Moriarty,” My voice was oddly calm for how much I was trembling where I stood. “You were the one who thought we could survive the distance. We can’t even survive goodbye.”

Jim’s eyes snapped around to stare at me in disbelief, anger turning to fear. Unfortunately, I didn’t take my eyes off the cars in the distance.

“We’re through,” I spoke flatly, eyes blinking rapidly to keep back a fresh wave of tears. “Best luck at university.”

“Yeah, well _fuck you_!!” Jim snapped, turning on his heel to walk quickly up the street from whence he came.

I wish I could say I looked back to see him leave. I wish I could say he looked back too, that our eyes met, that the apologies spoke without words, that we ran back into each other’s arms and kissed and lived… well, maybe not happily ever after, but lived together, happily. But my eyes stayed on the traffic, my ears listening regretfully the scuff of his feet hurrying across the pavement, fading into the distance.

I gritted my teeth, setting down one of my duffle bags so as to wipe roughly at my teary eyes. “You bastard,” I sniffled. “Don’t you know I love you…?”

I waited, the silence filled only with car engines and the beep of horns and the shuffle of foot traffic on the pavement and the coo of pigeons raiding the café patios. And when nothing else made a sound, I finally peeled my eyes from their vigil, looking to where Jim had been just moments before.

“Jim…?”

He wasn’t there, obviously. I honestly don’t know what I expected. Jim Moriarty was not the man of fairy tales; he was no prince in shining armor, who would swoop in when he was needed the most. Jim was Jim, temper and problems and quirks and all. And Jim was _my_ Jim… until I let him go.

I tried to convince myself that it would all get better. A broken heart would heel, someone new and fresh-faced would fill the hole left by Jim. I would love them ten times more than I had ever loved him. But there was this sinking feeling, an instinctual, gut feeling; deep down, I knew none of that would happen. I knew Jim was the one, the one I would never get over.

I thought about running after him, I honestly did. My eyes darted from down the road to the corner around which Jim had disappeared. My feet danced anxiously on the sidewalk. I think I was close to a decision, close to running back to Jim with a bucket of apologies to dump on his head, when I spotted it. Turning the corner, coming up the road… the bus. My stomach dropped, but I picked up my duffle bags, shouldering my backpack more comfortably. The bus rolled up the stop, hissing as it dropped low and opened its door to me. One last glance is all I allowed myself. One last look down to the corner, one last hope to see him, just one more time. But there was nothing waiting for me there. There was nothing left in the city for me, not a future, not a family, not a lover, not even a friend…

So I climbed on that bus.

And I never looked back.


	5. Welcome Home, Soldier

The moment my feet met the ground, it felt wrong, for lack of a better term. The hub-bub of people, smiling, innocent, naïve, flooding the sidewalks in careful rows like ants marching to and from the nest. The almost constant sound of car horns as thin patience made it known to all they had far better places to be than in traffic. The low-rumbling rush of the subway as the train came speeding to the station, the people who scurries like rats to pile inside, bodies squishing against bodies as if packing the maximum number of occupants into one car was some sort of proud moment for every cramped passenger. Five years fighting a war, and they just dumped me into this urban jungle with no aid, no guide, and no way out.

I entered into the cesspool of London with next to nothing. I wandered around the streets in the same military garb I had boarded the plane home in. As it were, my military outfits were the only belongings I owned, beside a half-dozen pairs of clothes I had kept all through military school and all through my time in the field. The old things were spared from the trash for one reason, and one reason only: though faint as it was, that particular scent still clung to them, one of old lady perfume and fry oil and musty book pages, all wrapped into that singular smell that sent me head-first into a wild cocktail of emotions and memories. One whiff of the smell and I was that love-struck teenager with the battered body and freshly broken heart. And there he was, my Jim, always so serious and cynical, but always mine nonetheless. The scent would fade and I was back to the lonely predicament of maximizing my rather bleak chances of survival in the heartless warzone of London.

They expected me to crack, to buckle under the sudden weight of civilian life. They had come up with all sorts of names to dub my failure: PTSD, depression, anxiety, to name a few. They would say it was the war that broke me. But it was never the war. Behind the scope of my rifle, I was at home, at peace with myself and with the world. The problem was with the civil world. I was little more than a trained beast, kept on a short leash, knowing my way around the small area I was allowed freedom in, a creature that was now suddenly set loose in an open field full of endless dangers and stresses. Without direction, I was doomed to break down. So I set my mind on a single task: find direction.

I lost track of all the places I had applied for work; none of them wanted me, anyways. I was starting to feel that weight, the weight of the free world, crushing down on my shoulders. Without a job, everything I saw was seen in terms of the money I couldn’t afford to spend. By the end of my first month back in London, I couldn’t eat. The food on my table made me think of all the money it took to get it there. Finances made me anxious, and my anxiety killed my appetite in a heartbeat.

 My second month ‘home’ marked my month of rapid decline. Though I wasn’t keeping track, I noticed the weight I was losing in the way my military clothes grew baggy. I maintained as vigorous a workout routine I could manage on the lousy amount of calories I was taking in. When I wasn’t working out, I was sleeping. I took to sleeping for the better part of the day, due to the simple fact that when I was asleep, I wasn’t constantly anxious. And in the precious few moments I had apart from sleeping and working out, I frequented coffee shops. Not for the coffee, mind you, but for the free Wi-Fi. I needed Wi-Fi to apply for jobs, and I unfortunately needed a job to afford my own Wi-Fi. So coffee-shop squatting it was.

Today was already a rough day for me before I started for the first of many coffee shops I haunted with my purchase-less presence. It was the day that marked my and Jim’s anniversary as friends. At least, it _would_ have been, if we were still friends. Applying for jobs always set me up to think about Jim, as I filled the plethora of education- and work-related blanks with my scant amount of information. Did he end up graduating from college? What did he end up majoring in? Did he have the job he wanted? Or was he miserable, like me? Naturally, my more or less neutral thoughts of Jim never ceased to turn depressive before long. Did he meet someone in college? Was this new guys far smarter than me, with his college education and pompous vernacular? Had Jim forgotten me entirely? The answer to all these questions, much to my dismay, as always ‘most likely’.  I tried to push thoughts of Jim from my mind, but they were always there. They had _always_ been there. Every day of military school, every day of training, every day in the thick of battle, at every high point and every low point in the past five years of my life, there had always been thoughts of Jim. I wondered if there would ever come a time in my life where I would no longer think of Jim, but I highly doubted there would.

The application was asking for details about my military service in extensive, long-winded paragraphs. I shut my ancient second-hand laptop and stared out the window from my nook in the far back of the coffee shop. Life suddenly seemed so hollow, in those moments with my eyes fixed on the people drifting by the coffee shop windows. I thought of the gun back at my run-down apartment. I thought of the relief that sleep brought to me. I thought of putting myself into one big, endless sleep where my worries and troubles would never be able to reach me again…

A voice spoke to me from somewhere I was only partially aware of, though somehow aware enough to know it was directed at me: “Well look who it is, _General_ Moran!”

“Colonel,” I corrected without a second thought, still not quite used to what little care people in London gave my to hard-earned titles. “It’s _Colonel_ Moran.”

I think it was the silence that cued me back to the real world, the place where most people would place their apology, half-hearted, hollow, or otherwise. Except there was none. Because I looked, and found the person who had spoken was not most people.

The shock must have hit my face the moment I recognized him, because he smirked something awful. “What? Are you _that_ pleased to see me?”

It was a tease, obviously, made more evident by his less-than-subtle glance to the crouch of my pants. Despite it all, I _was_ pleased to see him. Relieved maybe was a better word. God, I just wanted to pounce on him with the king of all hugs, fill my lungs with whatever he smelled like now and never leave it behind again. But that’s the thing about military training: it tends to kill that sort of spontaneity, or at least one’s ability to act on it.

I could see it in his face, that expectation of _some_ sort of response. But the thing was, there were no words. I just wanted to take it all in, stretch out this very moment to last a lifetime. I wanted to study all the new edges and features of his now mature face, lose myself in his deep dark eyes, watch the light shimmer off all the product in his hair, fantasize about what details lay beneath his carefully tailored suit. I think he figured me out, based on the ghost of a smirk that reappeared on his face, and by the way be filled the conversational gap himself.

“So what’s a stone-cold veteran like yourself doing in a worn out coffee shop like this?”

Oh no, I didn’t want this. I didn’t want to talk about my horrid life, I wanted to hear about his! What had he been up to in the past five years? Where was he working? What was he doing there? Was he happy? Was he dating someone? Did that someone wear glasses? I bet he wore contacts. And there it was, my anxiety, flaring back up like a fire fed with gasoline.

“Seb…?”

One look at his face, at that worry that seemed so misplaced in his cold eyes and careless air, and I knew _he_ knew. The _last_ thing I wanted was for him to know. How big and strong I was, cowering at the mere thought of my ex’s new contact-toting scholarly boyfriend!

“I think you should go…” Of all the words that could have come from me, why these? I didn’t know. And in all honesty I hated myself for saying them. But it wasn’t far from the truth. I didn’t want him to see me like… _this_ …

“And I think you should come with me,” came his very firm and very demanding reply. Such an answer was to be expected, but here I was, as shocked by the response as ever.

 I looked at him, looked at his eyes, finding something fiery burning there.  Anger, maybe? I wouldn’t have been surprised. I was angry with me too. But no… it was something more like a fierce protectiveness, possessive almost. I opened my mouth to respond to him, not really sure anything would come out. I never found out. He cut me off because anything could.

“I’ll put the kettle on. You take a shower; don’t know if anyone has told you, but you smell like a gym with all their janitors on strike…”

“I can’t really afford the water to shower,” I mumbled under my breath, the majority of me too embarrassed to admit it, but a small part of me, the part that managed to be vocal, knowing that above all else I needed help. Serious help. And fast.

And in his face, just for a moment, I saw something rather rare. I only knew what it was because I had seen it once, maybe twice, before. Sympathy. How many times had I snuck him into the locker room after football practice because he couldn’t afford a hot shower at home? How many days had I packed two water bottles before I left for school knowing that he really didn’t have safe water to drink at his house? How often did I buy and extra lunch because I knew he didn’t have much in the way of food at home for his next meal? Oh how the tides had turned…

“Come on, Seb.”

“Jim…”

“I said come on.”

The words tumbled quietly from me, fraught with something close to guilt. “I missed you…”

He didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. I knew from the moment I looked upon his face that he had missed more than I could ever know. And for the first time since I had returned from war, for the first time in two long months, I let slip something of a smile.


	6. The Solider's Disability

I would be lying if said we just picked up our relationship where we left off, or at least where I like to imagine we left off. As much as I could wish for such a thing, I could also see how blatantly impossible it would be. Jim had changed. _I_ had changed, too, I suppose. I wasn’t such a snarky idiot running his mouth all the time; my military discipline left me rather quiet, more introspective than I had been, more content to let the hours pass me by unnoticed than fill them with adolescent shenanigans. And Jim… where to even begin?

The first thing I found had changed about him was his wealth. His apartment was spacious and decorated with only the lushest and most extragavent pieces of furniture with complicated foreign names I couldn’t even begin to pronounce. Don’t get me wrong, I was happy to see Jim had become successful, in whatever it was he did. I was more than happy to see him with the money to care for himself and treat himself too. But it became quickly apparent that the money was going to his head.

“Westwood,” he smirked as he showed me his closet—how did we end up at his closet, anyway? “This closet here is all Westwood. Give me your measurements and I can have some made for you too. Unfortunately, they won’t be ready in time for when you’ve finished showering.”

Oh that’s right, I was showering. Because apparently I smelled about as neglected as I felt. It was hard to think clearly as my eyes roved the space Jim called home, a variable landscape of blacks and silvers. I always thought of Jim was a black and white sort of guy; the silver just seemed… gloating.

“Sebastian?”

“Hmm..?” My trail of thoughts had rendered me deaf to the living world, which included Jim’s voice.

“I said, what’s your measurements?”

I frowned. And it took me a while to figure out why. It was his tone. It was so… demanding? No, more impatient. Demanding I was used to, but impatient I was not. Jim had always been a bit short with others, completely unsympathetic towards most, but patience had always been one of his best virtues. I attribute it to his difficult upbringing, never spoiled, always more than thankful when something leaned in his favor.

“I don’t know my measurements,” I replied a bit curtly. I wasn’t mad at Jim, really, but rather the changes I was discovering in him, like finding worms in your perfect shiny apple.

I saw it in his face, the processing of my words, my tone. Like the wheels in a slot machine, he was trying to decide if he was angry, hurt, indifferent… he landed in the last one with a shrug and a slight glare plastering on his face.

“It’s whatever. We’ve more important matters, anyways.”

“The shower?” Again, my voice came out more perturbed than I would have liked.

“That,” Jim’s voice strained to keep from sounding angry. “And the matter of feeding you.”

“Feed me?” The edge of frustration in his voice piled on to how upset I was beginning to feel, which translated into something of a snappy tone. “What am I? Your pet?”

“Sebastian!” What was it, anger? Indigence? Total disregard? I couldn’t tell, focusing less on Jim and more on the building ball of unpleasant unhappiness consuming every fiber of my being.

“What the hell do you want from me, Jim!?” There it was; I said it. I needed to know what he wanted. I couldn’t let him lead me about like some love sick puppy, not with my heart still as battered as it was from our rocky goodbye. “Why am I here? Why do you want to have me shower, eat your damn food? Is this a _date_!? Because—…! B-Because—! _Fuck_!!”

Oh god. I was losing it. In front of _him_. Was this some sort of nightmare? I kept babbling on, hot angry tears welling up in my eyes and spilling down my cheeks before I could stop them, which only made me angrier. I was _crying_ in front of him!! Oh god!!

“I can’t play this game with you, Jim!! I can’t play charades and try and guess every little thing you want from me!! I can’t _fucking_ do it!! You’re just going to have to settle for you stupid-ass _boyfriend_ —!!”

“I don’t have a boyfriend.”

Why did those words cut me so deep, enough to physically cut short my tirade? Maybe it was the fact that I was no longer in a room with contact-scholar-dating Jim, but in a room with _single_ Jim, _alone_ , after not seeing him for five years. Or maybe it was the fact that despite all the anger and hate spewing like sewage from my mouth, he was as calm as could be, displaying the endless patience I once knew him to have.

“Seb, what happened to you?”

The words blurted out defensively. “What happened to _me_!? What happened to _you_?!”

There was a dark, terrifying anger clouding his face. “What. Happened. To. You?”

I opened my mouth, expecting more angry and insincere bullshit to fall out, but instead I sat there, in silence, the question suddenly the only thing in the world.

What _had_ happened to me? For as much as I thought Jim was changed, he must have seen me—all uniform and sternness and stoic silence and seriousness—and… did it upset him?

“I think I should go.”

“I think you shouldn’t.”

“Jim… _really_ …”

“You’re _staying,_ Sebastian.”

“No, I-I—…”

Suddenly, his voice was an angry bark. “That’s an order soldier!!”

God, how that rattled me, stiffened my spine into attention, snapped my eyes forward. It took a full second for me to realize what had just happened, but when I did, I saw Jim’s smirk, and I wasn’t sure whether I was angry or… or _what_.

“Isn’t that cute?” He purred, not even trying to suppress the smirk.

“Fuck you,” came my automatic response, more annoyed than angry.

His eyebrows shot up, an expression I had long since learned was intentional rather than natural. “Shouldn’t you take me to dinner first?”

I think my face turned ten different shades of red as my eyes fluttered like a startled bird. Was he..? No he couldn’t be…

He crossed his arms, leaning heavily on a single leg as he struck a rather sassy pose, his eyes trailing up and down my uniform with unabashed disgust. “Or rather, shouldn’t you _shower_ first?”

 _You gonna join me?_ It was the sort of response we were both expecting from me. Something sharp and cocky. But I was silent. He only sound that came from me was the troubled swallowing of the lump in my throat. I saw it, actually _saw_ the expression fall from his face, leave nothing but disappointment behind. Maybe there was a little worry there, but with Jim, you couldn’t get your hopes up.

“Why won’t you let me help you?” He sighed, annoyance creeping in but tone patient and calm. Maybe he _was_ worried.

“You don’t help people,” I replied. It was true. He had made a point of telling me several times once we were friends. He made it clear every time he thought I may be asking something of him.

“You’re right,” He said flatly, eyes burning into my own with that intense eye contact of his. “I don’t help people. But you’re not people, Sebastian. You’re much more than that. You’re my friend. And right now, I want to help my friend.”

“And later…?” All this concern… neither of us were used to it. Before, I went along with most anything. What _had_ happened to me?

“Later?” He sighed dramatically. “Well you better keep me entertained if you want there to be a later, Seb.”

He must have seen the anxiety flare up in my eyes, or my face, or _something_ , because I saw the confusion and the struggle to amend his words in his.

“Sebastian! Relax! It’s a joke. I’m _joking_. Do you remember those, jokes? Little lies you tell friends to keep them happy? You used to be good at them. Me, not so much.”

“I—…. I’m sorry…” My eyes dropped to my boots, the sadness soaking my very being to the bone. I meant it. I was more sorry than I had ever been. I didn’t know what was wrong with me. But something was broken. And I didn’t know the first thing about how to fix it…

“Don’t be sorry,” Jim’s voice was strained with that special kind of annoyance that was about as close as he came to apologetic. “Get showered. Seriously, get yourself cleaned up. Toss that uniform in the wash, too, while you’re at it. The smell is starting to make me nauseous.”

He seemed to be finished, but he added quite quickly: “Take your time. I’ll try and cook something while you’re getting washed up. And… I may just need all the time you can give me to put something together…”

For some reason, it was _that_ little phrase that put a smile on my face. I don’t know what it was, perhaps the rare admittance of a flaw, or perhaps it was nostalgic of a simpler time between the two of us, but I smiled nonetheless.

“Whatever you say, boss.”

I saw a twitch of a smile flash over his grumpy little expression. He must have seen it, a glimpse of the old Sebastian, the fun and light-hearted and easy-going Sebastian. All he needed was a glimpse to know that Sebastian was still in there, under the military training, under the solitude, under the anxiety. If it was there, Jim was sure to be hell-bent about dragging that Sebastian back out. And the Jim I knew would never quit at something once he was determined.

“Shower,” Jim repeated, a little more playfulness to his annoyed tone.

“Shower,” I repeated, turning on my heel to do just that.

There was a moment of silence as I walked towards the bathroom, then I heard his voice, dripping with tease.

“Never thought I’d love seeing you walk _away_ this much.”

I flipped him off as I entered the bathroom and shut the door behind me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if I'm misrepresenting people with general anxiety disorder through my portrayal of Sebastian. I'm trying to write as real of a character as I can, and I want to be sure to accurately portray the mental disability as best I can!


	7. A Friend and A Total Stranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Attempted Suicide
> 
> Also, have yet to edit, so bear with me there...

The first summer after Jim and I had officially met, my family took a vacation to the countryside. I remember begging every day after learning of the trip for Jim to accompany us. My father despised the idea; it was a _family_ vacation, he continued to say as he shook out his newspaper and block my view of his face with the black and white shield. My mom took my father’s side for a long while, until I brought Jim over for lunch one day after football practice—at which I played football and Jim read his books from the sidelines, uninterested. My mother asked him if he like grilled cheese. Jim was confused. _A cheese sandwich?_ He asked. _Yes,_ my mother replied. _But cooked on the stove._ Jim looked baffled. _My mum doesn’t use the stove_ , he said. _Mum says we need the gas for heating, but only when coats can’t keep us warm enough._ I think it was then and there that my mother decided that Jim was coming with us on vacation, whether my father liked it or not.

That had always been the way with the Jim I knew. He was a little shit most of the time, but you shrugged the sort of stuff off, because you knew he was dealing with one shitty life. Beneath his layers of arrogance and smart-arse and disregard, there was a center of deep and dark sadness. When you were as close to Jim and I was, the outer layers just sort of faded into the norm, and you were left staring into the dark abyss of melancholy. It was soothing, to a degree, to know that beneath all his complexities and strange social habits, Jim was governed by one of the basic human emotions. And I think that’s what began to bother me the most in the short while I found myself living under Jim’s roof, more or less: no matter how hard I tried to work through all his new layers, I couldn’t seem to find it, that calming pit of sadness, the point at which everything became relatable on an primal level. Instead, the further I delved the more I felt the heat of a burning anger, the product of his sadness turned to spiteful action. The longer I stayed with him, the more assured I became of this fact, and the more worried I became about getting burned.

I was still living at my own apartment, technically speaking. I slept there, and woke up there, but that was about it. Every morning, I’d awake to find a text from Jim on my new phone—a gift he forced upon me, of course—telling where the two of us would be getting breakfast. I’d meet him there. We’d eat in silence; he was always on his phone or computer, working away at whatever mysterious job he had, and me?... I didn’t have anything of value to say anyways. After breakfast, he’d usually take me shopping, much to my dismay. Clothes one day, groceries the next; if I was lucky, we’d swing by a gun store, and I’d spend a good half an hour holding a pleasant conversation with whoever was behind the counter. Those conversations always hit me with a heavy dose of nostalgia. It was weird, to feel so nostalgic about something that had only come to an end a few months back. I suppose it was a testament to just how much I was missing my life behind the scope of a rifle, amidst the danger and the land mines and the dying brothers in arms. When we were done shopping, we’d go to Jim’s apartment. I’d shower and do laundry; Jim would… work, probably, I don’t actually know. Some days, Jim wouldn’t be there when I would come out of the bathroom, and some days he never returned before I left for my own place. Other days, he lounged about his apartment, phone or computer constant at his fingers, mouth spewing all sorts of teases on the side. For a little while, the comments made me blush and usually elicited some sort of hateful reply, but they made me feel good all the same. Wanted, perhaps. Or just worth the space I was taking up, worth the air I was sucking in. But the little jibs and teases quickly became hollow, like the bone you throw to a dog when you don’t feel like occupying him yourself. Suddenly, every time Jim opened his mouth, I took a knife to the gut, my jaw clenched up, my mouth turned to ash. He never noticed, eyes on a screen, mind somewhere else entirely. I found myself leaving early to head home, trying to make excuses for a little while but eventually just up and leaving without a word. None of it mattered to Jim. I wondered if he even noticed my absence. In the silence of my un-heated apartment, I began to wonder what I was doing with my life. I began to wonder again if any of it was worth it, worth hauling myself out of bed another day just to feel like a metaphorical Julius Cesar of hurt feelings. I groaned aloud. I hated myself for being so utterly sensitive all of a sudden. I thought war was supposed to harden me, not turn me into some self-conscious worry-wort.

I popped a sleeping pill to put me out of my misery for a little while. But with the bottle in my hand, and the pain twisting up in my gut, I swallowed a handful of the pills instead. I don’t think I made it out of the bathroom before I blacked out. Or at least, I don’t remember anything after that moment.

It’s a rough transition to say the next thing I remembered was staring at a plate of jello in a hospital bed, but I honestly couldn’t tell you what transpired between the two moments. I suppose I was taken to the hospital, and revived. I didn’t know how, though. My neighbors… they wouldn’t know, or care, that I was… well… in need of help, I guess is how I want to phrase it. Jim was the only person I was in contact with. But it didn’t make sense for Jim to save my life. Jim didn’t care about people, and I no longer believed his speech about me being more to him than just people. He didn’t visit me at the hospital either, or at least that I have memory of. No one did, aside from this psychiatrist who came to talk to me about how I was feeling, what I was thinking. I guess at some point I must have told the lady that I wanted to die, because she kept pressing me for a _why_ I wanted to die. I shrugged, mostly, but I did answer her once:

“There’s only life and death, isn’t there? And when one of them is hell, it just makes sense to take your chances with the other one.”

I can’t remember what her response was, if she even had any. All I remember from that moment on becoming so wrapped up in the fact that I no longer valued life; it was absolutely terrifying. I remember her saying something on the subject later on, about how I no longer valued my life because I was made to not value life in general while I was enlisted as a sniper. I didn’t like that explanation. I didn’t like blaming how messed up I was on the military. I was more than fine while enlisted, I was more than content with my life then. The military had done nothing to break me. The city had done all the damage.

They put me on some sort of meds. I despised the idea of needing pills to function, but, as my psychiatrist pointed out, I didn’t have a choice. Not now anyways, she told me. The pills were to calm my anxiety and combat my depression, she said; once I wasn’t at risk for taking my own life, I could choose to stay on the pills or find a new treatment. The pills came with jello every morning. The nurse who brought me my pills and jello wouldn’t leave me alone until she had seen me take the pills. I seriously began to wonder if I was in a hospital or a prison.

I think it was about a week before they let me walk; it might have been two, I have no clue how much I can’t recall. I was on my phone, trying to call Jim, before I had even left the building. It went straight to voicemail, and then informed me politely that there _was_ no voicemail, and hung up. I loitered outside the hospital, cars rolling past me on the street, the heat of the coming summer beating down relentlessly on my neck, my fingers tapping out a text message:

_Hey. Coffee? I’ll be at the usual place all day. Hope I’ll see you there._

I read it over at least a dozen times before I sent it, and another two dozen more after the fact. I wish he would just pick up the phone. It was so much easier to talk to him when I could hear his voice, gauge his mood…

So it was back to the cafés and their free Wi-Fi for me, hunting for jobs and worrying about the bills. Some may call it the domestic life. I called it hell on earth. To each their own. I glared down at my wrist as I typed my information into blank boxes, annoyed by the way my hospital band clinked against my laptop every time my fingers moved across they keys. I had on another bracelet too, which my psychiatrist had slipped on before she let me go free. It was rubber and baby blue, with a phone number carved on one side and the words _SUICIDE PREVENTION HOTLINE_ carved into the other. I tugged on the rubber bracelet, using it as a buffer between my hospital band and the laptop, successfully muffling the tapping, able to continue my application-filling, or as I liked to call it: application-blanking.

That was the moment I met someone; don’t read into that too much. Her name Chelsey Kate, but she called herself CK. She sat across from me at my table, something that generally wasn’t uncommon during the hours that the café found itself busy. What was uncommon is that she spoke to me.

“What do you think?” She said in such a cheery voice you’d swear it was faked, but one look at her pink cheeks and laughing blue eyes, everything about her became genuine. “Blueberry or chocolate?”

She had two muffins sitting on the table there in front of her, smiling at me as I peeked out from around my laptop, not too inclined to be social, but even less inclined to be rude.

“Blueberry,” I answered flatly. “Chocolate’s overrated.”

“Really?” Her eyebrows shot up, a gesture I had often seen Jim preform but never had I seen it happen as a natural response like it did on her face. “Then you’ve obviously never had _this_ place’s chocolate muffins.”

Before I could respond, the muffin was scooched across the table and sat in front of me. I looked to CK, not quite sure what was happening. She took a big bite of her blueberry muffin, reading my confusion in an instant, speaking through a mouthful of muffin.

“Go on then! Try it!”

And so I took a tentative bite from the muffin. And boy, was it good! She hadn’t been exaggerating.

“Good innit?” She beamed, the crinkling of her eyes expressing the laugh that never sounded. “You looked a tad bit lonely all by yourself in the corner here. You come here a lot, yeah? I’ve seen you before. I’m CK, by the way. You?”

“Sebastian,” I answered as I gulped down a half-chewed bite of muffin, paranoid about my rusty social habits.

“Sebastian,” she smiled, my name sounding like vocal sunshine in her voice. “Sebastian with the dog tags and the hospital band. There’s got to be a story there, am I right?”

“Yeah,” I answered. “But not one I _want_ to tell, necessarily.”

“Fair enough.” Her smiled had turned something close to sad, the sort of smile that spoke of a mutual understanding, a pain communicated without words. “How ‘bout this for a story: Sebastian, the quiet man with the dog tags, finishes his muffin with the dashing hero CK, and the two of them spend an evening wasting quarters at the local arcade?”

I blinked, wondering what, exactly, was happening, when she amended:

“The hero pays, of course. Generosity is part of her characterization, after all.”

I sat in silence, unsure. I looked to my laptop screen, looking at all the gaps in my resume. Then I looked to CK, to her soft eyes and contagious smile. One look and I caught it, smiling a bit back.

“I suppose there’s no harm in one night of fun, is there?”

“Depends,” she grinned, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Your pride might end up a bit bruised after I kick your ass at that shoot-em-up Terminator game.”

I grinned, a chuckle in my voice. “Oh really? Is that a challenge, then?”

“Loser buys the hot pretzels and cheese!”

“Well I’ll have you know, Ms. CK, I like _extra_ cheese with my pretzel.”

“As do I, dog tags!” She nodded to the muffin. “Finish that on the road?”

“You bet,” I smiled, shutting my laptop and stuffing the ancient thing into my backpack.

I had completely forgotten about inviting Jim to the coffee shop. By the time I remembered, I was already elbows deep in animated robots that needed shooting with my red plastic rifle. CK didn’t have the sort of training I had, but she had the upper hand with her know-how of the arcade game’s little bugs and loopholes. In that moment, I wasn’t thinking about Jim. I was thinking about myself, and how much fun I was having. CK was helping me to feel alive again. Jim had made me _look_ alive, but inside I had remained neglected. And for once, I seriously wondered if it was all for the best.


End file.
